


Of Teachers and Ta’ayl’e

by biscuitlevitation



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Co-Parenting, Enemies to Lovers, Fluff, Force-Sensitive Boba Fett, Galidraan, Kid Fic, Kidnapping, M/M, Melida/Daan, Teaching, Trauma, and he's still got beef with the jedi, jango has baggage, obi-wan also has baggage he just handles his better, we gotta work for the fluff sorry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2021-02-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 19:15:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,783
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26642827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/biscuitlevitation/pseuds/biscuitlevitation
Summary: Prompt... uh... So hear me out: what if Boba is force sensitive, and Jango freaks out a bit because he doesn't know what to do. And then freaks out more when Boba gets lost on their next trip. Boba eventually finds his way back with the help of one Obi-Wan Kenobi, who Jango decides will a decent force teacher for his ad. Jango may or may not have forgotten to ask Obi-Wan if he wants to teach Boba.aka: Beauty and the Beast but they're both dads who also beat each other up occasionally
Relationships: Boba Fett & Jango Fett, Boba Fett & Obi-Wan Kenobi, Jango Fett/Obi-Wan Kenobi, Past Obi-Wan Kenobi/Satine Kryze - Relationship
Comments: 274
Kudos: 1301





	1. Chapter 1

Obi-Wan strode through the crowd, frowning thunderously with his hood casting most of his face in shadow. Seeing people recoil from him, whispering _Jedi_ like a curse, would normally be disheartening. However, on the lower levels of Coruscant, prejudice had its perks. No one dared to attack him or pickpocket him in the way they did many Force sensitives, particularly padawans or commonly trafficked species. (Quinlan could absolutely not be convinced, by hook or by crook, to take his teenage padawan to the lower levels, no matter how many of his shadow missions took place there. Aayla sometimes complained, but her stint as a child slave meant her heart was never in it.)  
Of course, once he tracked down the informant Dex had asked him to find, he would make an effort to look more friendly, but for the moment--

Obi-Wan stopped in his tracks. The crowd parted and flowed around him as if he were a boulder in a river. Someone was fluttering against his shields, angry and young and terrified.

Obi-Wan broke into a Force assisted run, dodging pedestrians too slow to scramble out of his way and eventually leaping high above their heads and jumping from neon sign to neon sign when running against the crowd became too much of an injury risk for those in his way.

Soon enough he came upon a dead end passage between buildings, narrow and dark enough that Obi-Wan became acutely aware of how low beneath the surface he really was. He contemplated igniting his saber for light, but he didn’t want to scare the youngling further--

“Hey, kid,” one figure was saying softly, almost hypnotically. “Why don’t you just calm down and come with us— _Ow_ , the little wermo bit me!” they snarled, any beauty in their voice abruptly gone. They were answered by a mocking, distinctly insectoid clicking.

“Lemme go!” a child howled, voice wavering with tears. “Get off or my buir’s gonna kill ya!”

Saber it was, then.

Both the would-be kidnappers went still at the unmistakable _snap-thrum_ of a lightsaber, suddenly cast in a pale blue glow. One was a Vuvrian, twelve eyes glittering unpleasantly, and the other was likely a Nagai, though at first the blue tint their pale skin took under the light made them look more like a Chiss. 

“I suggest you leave the youngling be,” Obi-Wan said mildly, with a spin of his saber that sent shadows dancing over the walls, illuminating a quicksilver flash of his eyes. 

(Anakin had cheerfully informed him that that move made him “almost creepy enough to look cool,” so long as he kept his face hidden beneath his hood. Obi-Wan hadn’t exactly been flattered, but intimidation could be a valuable negotiating tactic, no matter how uncivilized.)

The Vuvrian had the brains to hang back, but the Nagai was from an honor-based warrior culture, though this one had no honor to speak of. They drew a pair of ornate Tehk’la blades, wickedly curved and toothed, and charged. 

Obi-Wan spun his saber around to shear the blades from their hilts, and his eyes widened as his weapon shorted out, the kyber crystal’s song hiccuping and going quiet, plunging them all into renewed darkness. Cortosis weave? That had been outlawed millennia ago; those were either heirlooms or incredibly illegal.

He felt a vibrating Tehk’la bite into his arm and lashed out. His foot met something solid and he kicked the Nagai away, the Tehk’la only knicking him. Unfortunately, the knife was made to cripple, to maim, and even a glancing cut could prove serious.

Obi-Wan closed his eyes and centered himself, a million blindfolded sparring matches and training exercises under Master Yoda’s watchful gaze having made sight unnecessary to win a battle. He felt a rush of air and dodged, grinning when he heard the knife clatter somewhere behind him. The fool had thrown it.

There was a second displacement of air, a lance of anger and intent, and Obi-Wan dodged again, only to have a fist smash solidly into his face.

Right. Vuvrians. Twelve eyes. They could pick up any amount of light, no matter how small.

He jumped back, tearing off his robe and throwing it out like a net in one smooth turn. He grimaced when he heard his lightsaber clatter to the ground; he hadn’t meant to send his only weapon flying, too, even if it wasn’t working at the moment.

Nevertheless, Obi-Wan had an advantage to press. He tackled the Vuvrian to the ground, his robe wrapped around their head and blinding them. He grappled them and rolled to the side just in time, the Nagai’s downward stab and vicious twist catching their compatriot in their side instead of Obi-Wan’s unprotected back. The Vuvrian screamed, muffled by the cloth Obi-Wan was attempting to smother them with, and the Nagai stumbled back, muttering an apology. They weren’t so apologetic that they didn’t yank the knife back out, the subsequent spray of blood catching Obi-Wan in the face. He was almost grateful for the darkness; had his eyes been open, that would have been very uncomfortable.

Obi-Wan got up and pressed the advantage, grimacing at the Vuvrian’s dying wails. Hopefully the poor youngling wouldn’t be too traumatized by all of this.

He and the Nagai danced around each other in pitch black, his opponent swiping blindly with their blade, the vibrating hum of which Obi-Wan could almost track as easily as a lightsaber.

Well. Almost.

The Tehk’la swiped horizontally across Obi-Wan’s chest. He leaned back just enough to keep the cut from going too deep, but it stung terribly. His hand came up, seized his opponent’s wrist, and twisted, hard enough to make them drop the blade, hard enough to feel the bones in that skinny wrist snap.

The Nagai howled in pain, but Obi-Wan had them now. He knocked them off their center of balance and--

— _snap-thrum_ \--

\--familiar blue light washed over him just in time for him to flip the Nagai into a wall and watch them crumple to the floor. They did not get up again.

Oh, the alley really was a mess. He wasn’t aware that Vuvrian blood pressure was so high. It had sprayed _everywhere._

“...that was kinda kandosii’la,” a small voice admitted, wavering only slightly. Huge dark eyes glared up at him, lips set in a pout. He couldn’t be older than five or six standard.

Obi-Wan pivoted, realizing a second too late what a sight he must look, but the child either had a commendable poker face for one so young, or he’d been exposed to far too much violence already. His adorable scowl didn’t so much as twitch.

“Hello there,” Obi-Wan said softly, slowly crouching down so as not to startle him.

“Don’t come closer, jetii,” the boy snarled, brandishing the lightsaber. It wavered dangerously; the hilts were heavy for untrained _adults_ , let alone children. His tiny arms were visibly trembling with effort.

Obi-Wan fought to hold back a grimace. Not one of Satine’s, then, judging by his instant hostility and level of comfort with violence. But no Mandalorian parent worth their salt would let their child wander around Coruscant alone, much less a parent hailing from the True Mandalorians or Death Watch. Was the child an orphan?

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Obi-Wan soothed, hands up, appeasing. “But you could hurt yourself with that. Would you like to set it down for now?”

The boy sent him a suspicious look. The blade dipped, then jerked back up.

“Please, if you drop it you could lose a foot,” Obi-Wan said desperately. “Here, if I scoot back against the opposite wall, and you put it between us, will you put it down? If it’s pointing straight at me I can’t call it to me with the Force or it’ll skewer me.”

“...sit on your hands, too,” the child demanded, and Obi-Wan quickly complied. They let out identical sighs of relief when the boy finally set it down, one from fatigue and the other from intense worry.

They sat in silence, the child scrubbing tear tracks from his face while Obi-Wan tried ineffectually to wipe the blood from his own. He ended up just mixing the blood from his arm with the Vuvrian blood smeared on his face, probably giving himself some sort of virus in the process.

After almost a minute, Obi-Wan felt a curious probe of his shields, even clumsier than the ones he felt when Master Yoda had him visit the creche. He relaxed his guard and welcomed the child in, projecting sincerity and calm. He pushed his intentions to the forefront -- concern, protectiveness. In turn he could feel the child’s suspicion, his fear, and a reluctant sort of fascination.

The boy recoiled, but thankfully didn’t lunge for the lightsaber. “You’re in my head!” he accused, eyes wide.

“No, little one,” Obi-Wan laughed, “You’re in _mine_. You asked to be let in, so I let you. What do you sense?”

The boy resumed his clumsy search for intent, brushing aside Obi-Wan’s desire to help but unable to find any hidden motives. He was nowhere near as strong as Anakin had been as a child, for which Obi-Wan thanked the Force--mental communication with him could be risky, as Anakin didn’t fully understand even now how easy it was for him to overwhelm, or even hurt, other Force sensitives. Obi-Wan’s psychic skills with the Force had had to improve very quickly after his knighting.

Eventually the child withdrew, becoming more relaxed. He studied him with those wide amber eyes a bit longer, then inched forward until they were almost within arm’s reach of each other.

“Are you a jetii? Shouldn’t you be stealing me instead of helping? Everyone knows jetiise steal kids. Will you get in trouble?” His voice was much louder than before, almost cheerful, as he interrogated his new companion. 

Obi-Wan smiled ruefully, unsurprised by the line of questioning. “Jedi only take Force sensitive children if they’re being abused or enslaved.” (He had to fight back a frown at that--it took a lot of rule bending to save enslaved children _outside_ of the Republic, as his own padawan could unfortunately attest.) “Otherwise, younglings are willingly surrendered by their parents, and only up to a certain age. Sometimes we’re left at the Temple as infants, as I was.”

“Your buir didn’t want you?” the child asked, eyes wide. “Why not?”

“It was the will of the Force. The Jedi are the only family I will ever need.” Though his abandonment hadn’t made it easier in those times when Qui-Gon had rejected him. Unlike Xanatos or Dooku, he had no legacy or family waiting for him outside the Order.

“Speaking of family, young one, where might yours be?”

“My _name’s_ Boba, not young one,” Boba said, masking his show of trust with petulance. “My dad’s working right now. He... dunno I’m outside. I was s’posed to stay in the hotel till he came back.”

“And why didn’t you?” Obi-Wan asked, in his best disappointed-master voice.

Boba crossed his arms, but didn’t meet his gaze. “Got bored. I wanted to go s'ploring, so I tried to open a window and it broke on accident.” Something in his tone suggested that it had not, in fact, been an accident. 

“And how did these two come across you?” Obi-Wan asked, though he was careful not to gesture so that Boba wouldn’t look at them more than necessary.

“They saw me steal some candy with jetiise magic ‘n chased me,” Boba said glumly. “Buir’s gonna be _so_ mad. He says I’m not allowed to use it around anyone but him, so I don’t get snatched. Then I went and got snatched anyway.”

“I’m sure he’ll understand it’s not your fault, Boba. Even if you shouldn’t have been stealing,” Obi-Wan soothed.

“Why would he care about me stealing?” Boba asked, as if Obi-Wan had said something ridiculous.

“Ah. My mistake,” Obi-Wan said. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

“Iono,” replied Boba, with an exaggerated shrug. “Buir’s the best bounty hunter in the galaxy, so he might be back at the hotel by now! He’s gonna be real mad when he sees I’m gone.”

A Mandalorian _and_ a bounty hunter. This was getting better and better. Hopefully saving his son might be enough to make up for being a Jedi, but that was difficult even for some non-Mandalorian parents when they saw their child with a supposed kidnapper.

“Do you remember where your hotel is? We can wait for him there.”

“No idea. Jus’ find it with your jetiise powers,” Boba suggested, already clambering onto Obi-Wan’s back. His arms came up to steady the child automatically, though he tensed when he felt a gush of fresh blood from the cut on the right, and another from the cut on his chest.

“Unfortunately, the Force does not work like that, youngling,” Obi-Wan said, wincing when Boba yanked on his bloody hair in retaliation for the diminutive. He reached out to grab his lightsaber and plunged them once more into darkness before he struggled to his feet, careful not to let Boba fall. “We’ll have to ask around. I’m sure _someone’s_ seen a Mandalorian about; you’re not exactly hard to miss.”

“Aren’tcha gonna put on your big brown coat again?” Boba asked, laying a head on his shoulder and getting comfortable.

“No need. There are plenty more where those come from,” Obi-Wan said, bouncing Boba a little to get a more secure hold on his dangling legs. “Now, let’s go find your buir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got prompted on tumblr and it expanded into a full fic. why do i do this to myself
> 
> well, i already have baby anakin in kairkiyc, so let's have baby force sensitive boba! this is set when obi-wan is 30ish, making Jango 38-39 and Boba 5-6. It's also set around the Obi-Wan & Anakin comic so Anakin might end up leaving the order for realsies to be Palpatine's "mechanic" and fall to the dark side a lot earlier but ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ (he's also at the height of his obi-wan hero worship sooooooooo... jealous tweenage ani, anyone?)
> 
> also im picturing obi-wan with a bloody tiddy window a la TOS kirk. we stan horny himbos who respect women in this household.
> 
> ta'ayl: jailor, with the plural being ta'ayl'e  
> buir: parent  
> kandosii'la: awesome/amazing  
> jetii: Jedi (singular)  
> jetiise: Jedi (plural)
> 
> next time: obi-wan finds the informant he was looking for... and jango finds him


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this got very lore heavy, because i am both an obi-wan simp and a mandaboo

It was not a fruitful search.

“Jetii, your blood’s sticky,” Boba whined in his ear. The poor child was exhausted, and he was cranky about it.

“That’s a good thing, young one. That means it’s drying, so that my wounds will scab and stop bleeding quite so much,” Obi-Wan explained, readjusting Boba on his back with a flash of pain from his injured arm and chest. “Speaking of which, would you like to take a short break? You must be hungry.”

He felt Boba perk up at that, but he made an attempt at nonchalance when he answered, “Fine, if we _really_ have to.”

Obi-Wan didn’t bother to hide his smile—Boba wouldn’t be able to see it from his perch on his back. “Many thanks, Boba.”

They stopped at the best-looking food stand Obi-Wan could spot this far down in the Undercity, which wasn’t saying much. All the seats at the counter vacated in short order; lower level Coruscanti wanted nothing to do with anything that could make a Jedi bleed, and everyone knew better than to bother a Jedi guarding a child. The chef eyed them sourly, and Obi-Wan paid twice as much as the listed prices to ensure that they wouldn’t get any unpleasant surprises in their food.

Boba ordered the spiciest dish available, and slurped down bright red noodles with relish that Obi-Wan admired. Just the smell was enough to make his eyes water. His own food was subpar, but the chef ruffled Boba’s hair approvingly, so Obi-Wan doubted that he’d gotten anything worse than perhaps saliva in his own dish. He’d lost enough blood that he felt a little sick, in any case, so he set about ripping his outer tunic into makeshift bandages after he’d eaten all he could stomach. Even his undershirt was a loss, shredded by the jagged Tehk’la blade to the point that a significant portion of his chest was exposed, but it was better than roaming around half-naked.

“Does it hurt?” Boba asked quietly, as Obi-Wan sloppily wrapped his arm with what used to be his opposite sleeve. His head was bowed, closely studying his lunch.

“No, dear one,” Obi-Wan said, the endearment he’d used when Anakin was younger slipping from his tongue without much thought. “I’m simply more used to burns than blood loss. No need to worry.”

“I’m not _worried_ ,” Boba scoffed, chipping varnish from the countertop with his fingernail. “I just don’t want you to die or anything.”

“They’d have to do far worse to finish me off,” Obi-Wan said, hoping the boast was Manda enough in nature to reassure him. “Would you like some blue milk to go with your noodles?”

“I’m not _laandur_ ,” Boba said, affronted, and stuffed his mouth as if to make a point.

“Perish the thought,” Obi-Wan said. “You’re one of the most kotyc younglings I’ve ever met. You remind me a bit of my padawan, in fact.”

Boba’s head whipped around, eyes wide. “Aruetiise don’t speak Mando’a!”

“Peace, Boba,” Obi-Wan said, lest he get stabbed with the boy’s chopsticks in a fit of patriotism. “I spent a year on Manda’yaim in my youth. I learned the language among your people.” From a certain point of view, at least—his primary tutor had been Satine, whose legitimacy he doubted Boba’s father acknowledged, but her grasp of Mando’a was primarily of the smoother, more flowery Kalevalan dialect. Colloquialisms and more traditional Mando’a he’d picked up on his own, often from her enemies, so as to keep them from sticking out quite so much. 

Boba eyed him, brows knitted in an expression that he _must_ have picked up from his bounty hunter buir, but relented. “What’s it like? I’ve never been.” His tone was wistful, and Obi-Wan felt an unpleasant roiling in his gut at the thought that Satine’s regime had driven the child from his rightful homeland.

“It’s… harsh, but beautiful. The surface is mostly deserts and dome cities, of course, but the plants and animals are hardy and strong, like the people.” Boba smiled at that. “I… enjoyed my time there, even if it was hard at times. You would like it, too.”

“Why’d you leave, if you liked it?”

Obi-Wan stilled for a moment, biting back a curse when his makeshift bandage unraveled at his inattention. Boba grabbed one end without hesitation and helped rewind it in practiced motions.

“...I would have stayed, were I wanted there. But I was not, so I returned to the Order once my mission was complete. You’re good at this.” It was a more blatant subject change than he typically used, but Mandalorians were nothing if not direct.

“I help buir sometimes! He doesn’t like the longnecks touching him,” Boba replied. “And sometimes I help the Alphas in the medbay, though I’m not supposed to. Why’d you want to leave the Jedi? Aren’t they your aliit?”

Blast. Children never seemed to care when Obi-Wan tried to change subjects. “They are, and I will always love them as such, but had I stayed, I would have to break my oath. A bit like the Resol’nare,” he elaborated at Boba’s inquiring look. “I cannot be a Jedi knight if I break the Code. It wouldn’t be fair, to the Jedi, to myself, or those I love.”

“Like dar’manda?”

“Not precisely. Jedi can leave the Order if they feel it is not the place for them, and they are not resented for it. My own grandmaster did, and we have a statue of him in the archives. He’s no longer a Jedi, but he’s still respected and missed. I left the Order once as a padawan, myself, but they took me back.” He carefully did not think about the hostile reception he’d gotten from many of his fellows, including his own master, after Melida/Daan. “But I was not asked to leave, and so I remained so that I could do my duty for the Republic.”

“That’s weird. Jetiise don’t act like aliit’re s’posed to. Me ’n buir used to have aliit, but then you killed all of them,” Boba muttered, pulling his bandage tight.

Obi-Wan’s stomach sank again. “You’re Haat Mando’ade.”

“Buir useta be. I wasn’t alive yet.”

“I’m sorry, Boba. I wasn’t part of the Order when Galidraan took place—” he’d been busy leading children to their deaths, too weak and stupid to save them “—but my grandmaster led the assault. He was wrong to do what he did.”

“S’okay. It’s your ba’buir’s fault my ba’buir’s dead, but you weren’t a jetii then, so it can’t be your fault,” Boba said matter-of-factly. “Buir hates jetiise, but I never met any of my ba’buire so I don’t hate you yet. I might when I grow up, though.”

The pain in his chest was no longer entirely due to the knife wound in it. “I see. I never met my grandmaster, either, but I’m sorry for the pain he caused your family. I hope I can make amends to you somehow.”

“You’re helping me now, right?” Boba said with a shy smile. “So I forgive you for being a jetii. I’ll even forgive your ad’ika, if they’re like you,” he added generously. 

“Hibir ner, you mean,” Obi-Wan corrected reflexively, leery of anything that smacked of attachment. He’d gotten more than a few lectures from the council on how lax he was with Anakin.

“Same difference,” Boba said, and Obi-Wan didn’t press the issue. He fidgeted a bit with his bowl, then blurted, “What’s your name?”

“Obi-Wan Kenobi. I’m sorry for not offering it earlier, Boba, that was terribly rude of me.”

“‘Sokay. I didn’t ask. But I’m asking now because you’re nice,” Boba said, blinking up at him with big amber eyes, as heart-melting as any loth kitten’s. “We’re friends now, right?”

Obi-Wan crumpled like wet flimsi. “I would be honored to be your friend.”

The chef sent them packing after Obi-Wan hastily bandaged the cut on his chest, again with Boba’s aid, but they offered Boba a hair-ruffle and Obi-Wan a cautious nod, so it wasn’t as much of a disaster as it could have been. 

They resumed their search, Boba settled comfortably in the crook of his uninjured arm now that his blood wouldn’t stain the boy’s clothes any more than it already had. It took a few hours, but full beskar’gam were unusual, particularly on Coruscant, so they were making good progress on tracking Boba’s buir down through various sightings in the Undercity. It was alarming that they were only going lower, but it couldn’t be helped. If it was an ambush or a trap, it was an extremely convoluted one, and Obi-Wan doubted that Boba’s parent would deliberately put him in harm’s way.

To pass the time, Obi-Wan taught Boba simple Force tricks with the disposable chopsticks from their luncheon. He was a bright, clever pupil who learned quickly, though once Obi-Wan had taught him how to lift and rotate them with the Force he immediately started shooting them at wary passerby. It became an odd game of catch, Boba giggling madly as he took aim and fired at anyone unfortunate enough to catch his eye while Obi-Wan made sure the chopsticks never actually connected with their targets. The worst they received for this were dirty looks, as Obi-Wan’s face and beard were still smeared with grey Vuvrian blood that obviously wasn’t his, a lightsaber and two Tehk’la blades tucked into his waistband.

(Some looks were decidedly more… appreciative, and those discomfited him more than the glares.)

They tracked Boba’s buir to a seedy cantina easily. He obviously wasn’t covering his tracks. He’d been hired to make a statement, then, and nothing made a statement better than a Mando on a mission. Obi-Wan stalked up to the bar, pretending to ignore the speculative, curious stares of its unsavory clientele, and said, “I’m here to see the Mandalorian.”

“He’s in a private room in the back,” the handsome Twi’lek bartender volunteered, a smirk playing on his lips. This was obviously the sort of place whose reputation only improved with brawls, then, if he was so eager to have a Jedi and a Mandalorian meet on the premises.

“Thank you,” Obi-Wan said politely, bouncing Boba on his hip in silent reprimand when he tried to nail a blue Trandoshan in a large hat and trench coat between the eyes with a chopstick. Boba snickered unrepentantly. He made his way to the dark, cramped back of the cantina and opened the occupied room’s door without knocking, too exhausted and sore for social niceties.

Ah. It appeared he’d crashed an interrogation in progress.

The Mandalorian looked up from his terrified victim, snarling, “What the hell—”

“Buir!” Boba cheered. “We found you!” 

“ _Boba?_ ” he said, looking as though he’d been shoved off a cliff some time ago and only just noticed. “Let go of my son before I kill you where you stand, you—”

He cut himself off again when Obi-Wan set Boba down without fanfare and snatched his floating chopsticks out of the air when they started to fall, the child’s concentration broken. Boba ran to his father and hugged his legs, chattering excitedly about his day.

Obi-Wan took a closer look at the unfortunate sentient who’d been blindfolded and tied to a rickety cantina chair, looking much worse for wear.

Ah. There was Dex’s informant.

“—an’ then Obi killed ‘em to keep ‘em from snatchin’ me, an’ we got lunch, an’ he taught me how to throw things at people with jetii magic!” Boba was saying. His father looked like the only thing that was keeping him from physically attacking Obi-Wan was Boba’s grip on his legs.

“Pardon, so sorry to interrupt,” Obi-Wan said, “but that’s a friend of mine tied to that chair, so if you don’t mind I’ll take them and we’ll be off.”

“You can’t just _leave_ ,” Boba said, stricken. One hand let go of his father’s limbs to tug plaintively at Obi-Wan’s shirt.

Obi-Wan knelt without a second thought, ignoring the informant’s terrified gibbering (and wet pants), the Mandalorian’s choked noise of outrage, and his own distaste at the state of the carpet. “It was a pleasure and an honor to meet you, young Boba, but I must be going soon. You were very brave today.”

“But you said you’d leave the Order again if a Mandalorian asked you to!”

“ _What?_ ”

“Dear one—”

“So I’m asking, Obi! I don’t want you to be a jetii anymore. You can be a Mandalorian, like you wanted!”

“Me’ _bana_ —”

“Ad’ika,” Obi-Wan sighed, unsure where to even begin. Boba was scowling again, but his eyes were wet with stubborn tears that tore at his heart. “I can’t leave my padawan, but thank you for asking.”

“You can teach _me_ jetii magic instead! You already taught me how to hit people with stuff. I’m a fast learner, like you said!”

“You are, cyar'ika,” Obi-Wan said helplessly. The Mandalorian made a sound that was half-growl, half-choke, and Obi-Wan absently hoped that he wouldn’t get shot in the head executioner style in front of Boba. “But it’s not my place. I would love to teach you, of course, but you need to go with your buir now.”

“You can come with us!” Boba insisted, a hint of a sob in his voice. “We can be aliit! Gedet’ye, Obi. I’ll be better family than the jetiise.”

For a moment, everyone was silent. When he glanced up at Boba’s father, just for a second, he had no idea what to make of the look in his eyes or the tangled knot of emotions he sensed from him. Obi-Wan himself was floundering—this was the first time anyone had become attached to him so quickly. 

“Please let me out of here,” the informant whimpered, shattering the tableau.

“Would you be willing?” Obi-Wan asked, still on his knees. He felt uncomfortably like a supplicant, on his knees and looking up imploringly at the inscrutable face of the Mandalorian. “I’d rather not subject your son to more violence today.”

“Is that where the blood on your face came from?” the Mandalorian asked, his voice just as controlled as his expression. It was the first thing he’d said to Obi-Wan that wasn’t dripping with threat. His eyes were still piercing, amber and intent.

“‘Lek,” Boba confirmed sulkily, rubbing at his eyes. “He killed ‘em with their own knives.”

“Well, not precisely—” Obi-Wan hedged, and cut himself off when the Mandalorian’s mouth twitched warningly.

“I’ll let them go, for now.” The Mandalorian turned to address the informant. “But you know what’ll happen if you even _think_ about squealing.”

The informant nodded so hard it must’ve hurt. Obi-Wan grimaced; Dex would be displeased to lose his latest informant’s cooperation. He’d have to make it up to his friend later.

“You can get yourself out of those ropes,” the Mandalorian declared, and moved past Obi-Wan to reach the door, armored thigh brushing his shoulder in the cramped space. He put his helmet back on, muffling his emotions and intentions behind beskar. Obi-Wan was careful not to grimace. “Jedi, with me. I want you to answer some questions about what exactly you did with my son.”

Boba scrambled to his feet, grabbing his father’s hand as Obi-Wan stiffly rose to follow, his cuts and various contusions protesting the movement. 

“Hurry _up_ , Obi-Wan!” Boba demanded, extending his hand. Obi-Wan hesitated, eyes flicking to the Mandalorian, who’d gone very still, helmet tilted to watch them. The child groaned in annoyance and grabbed Obi-Wan’s hand, pulling him along with them.

They made their way through the cantina again, causing a bit of an uproar. It wasn’t every day you saw a Jedi and a Mando holding hands with the same small child. Even the Duros from earlier looked surprised, his ridiculous hat slipping to an odd angle when he knocked it back to get a better look.

“Come back soon!” the bartender called as they exited, with a wide grin. Perhaps this would be even better for business than a fight? Obi-Wan really didn’t know.

They walked in excruciating silence for a minute. No less than five people walked into various walls or each other at the sight of them. Boba swung their joined hands, uncaring of the gawkers, but he was flagging, yawning widely and dragging his feet.

“Boba,” his father said at last. “Do you need me to carry you?”

“Don’ wanna,” Boba protested. “Your armor’s hard and uncomfortable. I want Obi to carry me.”

The Mandalorian stopped in his tracks. Obi-Wan eyed his blasters nervously, his own hovering near his saber, but he made no move to attack. He didn’t move at all, except to look at them. Obi-Wan wished he could see his eyes; the helmet made him even more difficult to read than he already was.

“Fine,” the Mandalorian said at last. “I don’t care how injured you are, don’t drop him, jetii.”

“Never,” Obi-Wan swore, and lifted a thrilled Boba over his head to settle on his shoulders. “Hold on to my hair if you need to, but try not to pull, please,” he said, hands securely fastened around Boba’s legs. (This also kept Boba from kicking his chest wound, which was a plus.)

“Can we play chopsticks again?” Boba asked, already yanking his hair in excitement.

“You need to be careful not to tire yourself out,” Obi-Wan cautioned, casting a searching glance at the Mandalorian. “And I’m not sure if your father—”

“Show me what you’ve been teaching him, _jetii_ ,” the Mandalorian commanded, saying the last word as if it were an insult.

Boba whooped, pulled the chopsticks from Obi-Wan’s pocket with the Force, and shot them at the nearest gawking passerby. Obi-Wan caught them without moving his hands and brought them floating sedately back. Two more people walked into each other.

The Mandalorian sighed. “Well, at least it’s useful.” He sounded almost amused.

He spent the rest of their walk (to where? The motel? Their ship?) grilling Obi-Wan on the details of the afternoon, Boba piping up with his own point of view (with varying levels of relevance). He was especially suspicious of Obi-Wan’s connection to his target, until finally Obi-Wan admitted he’d tracked him down as a favor to Dexter Jettster.

“You know Dex?” the Mandalorian sounded genuinely surprised, though it was damnably hard to tell while he wore that beskar helm. 

Obi-Wan felt a wide grin split his face, unbidden, as it often did around Dex. “He’s one of my dearest friends.”

“Huh,” the Mandalorian said, and fell silent. His scrutiny only seemed to increase in intensity, if possible.

After a long trek to the lift to the upper levels, and a longer trek to the deserted shipyard, their journey came to an end. It was late, the sun long set, the shipyard illuminated only by far away lights.

“There’s Slave I!” Boba crowed from his perch, pointing excitedly. But his grin faded when Obi-Wan lifted him from his shoulders to set him on the ground.

“It was lovely to meet you, Boba. Truly,” he said, sending a pointed look to his father, who was watching silently.

“You’re leaving?” Boba asked, lower lip trembling.

Obi-Wan’s heart broke. “I must, ad’ika. But there is something you should have.”

He knelt, took one of the Tehk’la blades—not the one that had killed the Vuvrian, he couldn’t give that to a child, let alone a Force sensitive one—and presented the knife that had drawn his blood to Boba hilt first. “By right of conquest, this blade is yours.” He smiled a bit sheepishly. “It should really be my lightsaber, but you can’t use that safely without Jedi training, and I don’t want you to cut off anything important with it. But you handled this ordeal admirably, particularly for one so young, and I am very proud of you.”

Boba looked from the hilt, to his smile, and burst into tears. He flung himself into Obi-Wan’s arms, and the Jedi had to do some quick maneuvering to ensure that the blade didn’t bite into him a third time. The Tehk’la clattered to the ground.

Boba had thrown himself into Obi-Wan’s chest, which only aggravated his wound, but Obi-Wan’s hands came up to awkwardly comfort the sobbing child. “There, there, verd’ika,” he murmured. “I am glad to have met you.” 

Boba cried harder. Oh, dear. He looked to Boba’s buir for help, and something in his gut went cold to see him holding the discarded Tehk’la.

“This is cortosis weave,” the Mandalorian said, hand tight on the hilt.

“I am aware,” Obi-Wan said, throat dry.

“You would give this to a Mandalorian?”

“I would give many things to a Mandalorian,” Obi-Wan replied sardonically. _Not that she would take them._ “Boba told me that you are True Mandalorians.”

The Mandalorian went preternaturally still. “I was, once,” he growled.

“What the Order did was wrong, and I am sorry for it, for what little it’s worth.”

“You weren’t in the Order then,” Boba said into his chest. He’d stopped crying quite so hard, but his embrace had only gotten tighter. 

“My grandmaster was Dooku. Your clan’s blood is on my lineage’s hands.”

The Mandalorian snarled like a wounded Kyr’oya’kar, taking a sharp step forward as if to kill Obi-Wan where he knelt, holding his son in his arms.

“Buir!” Boba said desperately. “Buir, he never even met Dooku! He helped me!”

“I gave Boba that blade because it is his by right, and because Galidraan never should have happened,” Obi-Wan said. “And because I never want it to happen again.”

The Mandalorian halted, hands flexing, one on the blade and the other on the grip of his blaster.

“The Jedi have harmed the Mandalorians many times in our shared history,” he began, throat dry, heart pounding so hard he was sure Boba must feel it. “I won’t claim that we were always the aggressors, or that our actions were always malicious, but your people have suffered greatly and unjustly because of mine. I will work to ensure such a thing will never again come to pass, but I am just one man, and history is not on my side.” He stroked Boba’s hair, and Boba hid his face in his shoulder. “If Boba ever meets a Jedi again—and he very well might, considering his strength in the Force—I want to make sure he is safe, no matter what happens.”

The Mandalorian let out a sharp breath, and moved so quickly that Obi-Wan almost jumped back, a hand coming to rest on his saber, but he just ripped Boba from Obi-Wan’s arms. Boba let out a wordless whine, but went, amber eyes brimming with tears that felt much more genuine than his earlier ones.

“And what would you say, _jetii_ , if you knew our clan name was Fett?”

Obi-Wan’s breath caught. The Mand’alor. The Jedi Killer. He was alive. Alive, and _furious._

“I would ask you to swear, on your honor, not to use that knife on any of my brothers and sisters, unless they seek to harm Boba.”

“I don’t need a blade to kill your kind,” Fett spat. “I’ve killed six with my bare hands.”

“I am well aware of this, Mand’alor,” Obi-Wan said, a hysterical laugh building in his throat. “That’s why I'm giving the karking thing to _Boba_.”

They sat there, in the near-darkness of the abandoned shipyard. All Obi-Wan could hear were Boba’s sniffles and his own pulse pounding in his ears.

“On my honor,” Fett began, and Obi-Wan’s heart nearly froze in shock. “I swear not to use this knife on any jetiise that are not trying to harm my son. Boba is not bound by this oath.”

“...Thank you.”

“But I am not Mand’alor. I never will be, thanks to the Jedi and your puppet duchess.”

Obi-Wan said nothing, a curious mix of shame and indignation holding his silver tongue hostage. He wanted to defend Satine, but she had never thanked him for fighting her battles for her, and in a way, Fett was right. The Order had backed Satine’s installment for the Republic’s political gain, not because she had the right to rule by any traditional Mando metric.

“I owe you. You saved my son’s life, and…” He seemed to struggle to find words for a moment. “You’re still doing all you can to help him. I won’t ignore that. I can’t ignore that.”

“I did as anyone in my position would. You owe me nothing.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Fett snapped. His hands flexed again. “You bled for my boy. You gave him a weapon that can harm you, that _has_ harmed you. You taught him things I can’t. I wouldn’t be a Mandalorian if I did nothing in return. I have medical supplies on my ship, so come on board so I can treat you.”

Obi-Wan recoiled at the thought of going on board the ship of someone who had to work _that hard_ not to attack him. “That’s really not necessary—”

“Don’t make me _insist_ ,” said Fett, in a tone that suggested he'd sooner kill him. 

And, Obi-Wan realized with rising alarm, he very well might. Obi-Wan was exhausted from the fight, blood loss, carrying a healthy boy of five or six across every level of Coruscant, and missing most of his clothes. If he got into a fight with Fett now, he’d just bring the Jetii Kyramud's death toll from six to seven.

“In that case, I would be very grateful for your aid,” he said stiffly, and let Boba lead him by hand up the ramp of Slave I.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> obi-wan: casually shatters jango's entire perception of jedi  
> jango: okay fine i'll let ONE live
> 
> So obviously there's a lot going on under the surface that Obi-Wan is not privy to, lol
> 
> glossary:  
> jetii/jetiise: jedi (sing)/jedi (pl)  
> laandur: weak/fragile, often used as a pejorative  
> kotyc: strong  
> aruetiise: outsiders  
> Manda'yaim: Mando'a word for their homeworld, Mandalore  
> aliit: family/clan  
> buir: parent  
> Resol'nare: Six Actions, the tenets of Mando life  
> dar'manda: a state of not being Mandalorian - not an outsider, but one who has lost his heritage, and so his identity and his soul - regarded with absolute dread by most traditionally-minded Mando'ade (jango is kind of on the cusp of this)  
> Haat Mando'ade: True Mandalorians  
> ba'buir(e): grandparent(s)  
> ad'ika: little one, child of any age  
> hibir ner: my student (possessive comes after the word it modifies)  
> beskar'gam: beskar armor  
> me'bana: What's happening? What happened?  
> cyar'ika: sweetheart/darling  
> gedet'ye: please  
> 'lek: yeah  
> verd'ika: little soldier (when used as an endearment for children)  
> Kyr’oya’kar: Mandalorian wolf  
> kyramud: killer


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry about the wait. living in my city has been WILD recently. DC statehood right fucking now or i riot

“Buir?”

“Get the first aid kit, Boba. We’ll talk. Later.” 

Boba cringed, sent one last anxious look at Obi-Wan, and scurried up the ladder to the cockpit. There he hesitated; Obi-Wan could sense him lingering just out of sight, and going by Fett’s sigh he had noticed, too. “I’m not gonna kill your pet Jedi. Hurry, before he bleeds all over the cargo hold.”

“...‘Lek,” Boba replied, then proceeded to make a terrific racket, presumably while attempting to root out the first aid kit from wherever they kept it. Fett sighed again, and Obi-Wan couldn’t fully suppress a huff of amusement.

“ _What_?” Fett snapped, rounding on him. He got the sense that, while Fett had promised Boba he wouldn’t kill Obi-Wan, he’d still take any excuse to rough him up a bit more.

“I meant no offense,” Obi-Wan said, careful not to make any sudden movements, “Boba reminds me of my student. He’s a very bright child.”

Fett seemed to scrutinize him for a moment, helmet tilting slightly, then finally said, “He is.” Even with the vocoder, he couldn’t keep the affection and pride from leaking into his voice. 

Obi-Wan smiled again, almost despite himself, and turned to survey the ship’s interior. Though it was cramped, it was scrupulously clean and well organized, crates full of what he assumed must be nonperishable supplies, weapons, and ammo stacked so as to make the most of the space. There was a depression in one wall, presumably to store carbonite slabs—Boba had mentioned his father was a bounty hunter, so it wasn’t surprising. He felt almost embarrassed to be tracking in mud, blood, and the thriving bacteria of the lower levels on his boots.

There was a tremendous crash from above their heads.

“Boba?” Obi-Wan said, concerned, at the same time as his unfriendly host called, “Ad’ika!” 

“I got it!” Boba announced, dangling his head and shoulders down through the hatch with a wide upside-down grin. “I just knocked it down. An’ some other stuff.”

“Don’t do that, Boba, you could fall and crack your head open,” Fett ordered, but he was gentle as he reached up to help his son down. Boba squealed gleefully as he was flipped across his father’s broad shoulders, sliding down his back and bouncing over to Obi-Wan.

“Can you float it down with jetii magic?” he demanded, grabbing Obi-Wan’s hand and tugging insistently. “‘S too heavy an’ buir says I can’t drop things from the cockpit anymore.”

Obi-Wan smiled down at him, feeling the echoes of his excitement in the Force, then glanced up at Fett, who was watching them closely, emotions muffled by the helmet. “By your leave?”

“Fine,” he said, clipped, and beckoned Boba over and signed something at him. Obi-Wan was worried it might be a nonverbal scolding, but if anything, Boba’s excitement only grew.

Lifting his uninjured arm, Obi-Wan extended the Force until he felt the heavy box above them sitting near the ladder, and carefully tugged it over the lip of the opening in the ceiling until he could float it safely down. It was much larger than a standard first aid kit, which was again unsurprising. Fett did not strike him as the type of man to let wounds deter him.

“Kandosii!” Boba breathed, eyes sparkling. “Can _I_ learn to do that?”

“Perhaps, with practice,” Obi-Wan replied. “You’re a very quick study, but it will be difficult without a teacher.”

“You can teach me!” Boba said, and Obi-Wan huffed out a laugh.

“I don’t think we have time for that, young one. I’ll just patch myself up and be on my way.”

Boba pouted, brows furrowing, and said, “You know I can help! Buir can, too.”

“Thank you, but that’s not necessary,” Obi-Wan assured him, kneeling to open the kit. There was a healthy supply of bacta in any form you could get it—sprays, patches, gels. He noted that there were also bacta lollipops for stomach aches and loose teeth and little bacta plasters decorated with cartoon stars and banthas for scraped knees and elbows.

“I said I’d treat you, so I’ll treat you,” Fett growled, and kneed Obi-Wan out of the way so he could rummage through the kit. Obi-Wan settled back on his haunches, only for Boba to lunge over his shoulder and snatch a bacta pop.

“ _Bo_ ba,” his father said reprovingly. 

“My tummy hurts!” Boba whined.

“The kriff did you feed my son, jetii?” Fett demanded, grabbing the shoulder not currently occupied by a squirming child, and Boba wriggled between them, landing headfirst in Obi-Wan’s lap, who reached out automatically to steady him.

“Wait, no, I meant a toothache! I forgot the word in Basic, buir,” Boba said, tooka eyes at full force. 

“Don’t lie on my account, Boba,” Obi-Wan said, frowning. “Did the noodles not agree with you? I shouldn’t have gotten you such a spicy dish, I’m sorry—” 

Boba looked stricken. “No, Obi, no, it’s not your fault.” He shot a furtive look at his father, then whispered loudly in his ear, “I’m lying ‘cos buir never lets me have candy before dinner.”

Fett snorted audibly at that, though he went forebodingly still when Obi-Wan looked up at him, indulgent smile impossible to suppress.

“Take your shirt off, jetii, we don’t have all day.”

“I’ll help!” Boba declared, rolling from Obi-Wan’s lap and yanking his mangled overshirt down his arms, tangling around his hands. Obi-Wan hissed as the wound in his arm got jostled by Boba’s enthusiastic helpfulness, but let him do it, reluctant to upset him or guilt him for it.

Then Fett made a sharp hand movement, something cool clicked onto his wrists, and the Force went silent.

“What—”

Fett shoved him back before he could blink, and Obi-Wan, weakened by blood loss and disoriented by the Force, couldn’t stop him. The cuffs around his wrists popped into place on a protrusion from the wall that he hadn’t noticed before, leaving him hunched over with his elbows at odd angles to keep from dislocating his shoulders. A cold, gauntleted hand went down his belt and pulled his saber free.

Obi-Wan kicked out on reflex, but Fett was too close for it to connect effectively, and he was still wearing his armor. Fett just pivoted and knelt on his thighs, shoving his feet together and shackling his ankles together before Obi-Wan could do more than buck in a futile attempt to dislodge him. 

All of a sudden he had a lap full of Boba once again, and went still, unwilling to risk hurting him while struggling.

“Sorry, Obi,” Boba said, with an anxious smile. “You’re not mad, right?”

“Not at you,” Obi-Wan gritted out. He highly doubted that Boba had masterminded this plan, being all of five years old. The child’s warmth and excitement had never wavered (though they were beginning to tinge with worry at the look on Obi-Wan’s face), so Fett had most likely not told Boba that he intended to harm his son’s new friend. He might just think this was a game.

Fett scooped Boba up and set him halfway up the ladder, not letting go until the child had a firm grip. “Go strap in, ad’ika.”

“Aren’t you gonna help him like you said? He’s hurt,” Boba said, twisting so he could see Obi-Wan again. Fett’s hands shot up to support him, lest he fall and bump his head.

“Later. We’ll jump to hyperspace first.”

“‘Kay. Don’t worry, Obi! We’ll be quick!” Boba called, then clambered up after a pointed nudge from his father.

“Don’t bother trying to get out, jetii,” Fett said, turning and standing just out of kicking distance. “It won’t work. Not even if you still had this.” He waved the lightsaber hilt at him tauntingly.

Obi-Wan’s mind worked furiously. “...Mandalorian manacles. Of course.” 

Lightsabers, given enough time and swung with sufficient Force augmentation, _could_ conceivably cut the chain, though Obi-Wan could hardly do that himself. Still, he felt no need to tell Fett that.

Not that Fett needed beskar manacles to kill a Jedi.

Fett said nothing, just watched him. He hardly needed the helmet now that his unwilling guest had been cut off from the Force entirely, but he kept it on, most likely for intimidation purposes. Psychological warfare was not particularly effective against Jedi, but when someone with the moniker of _Jedi Killer_ waged it Obi-Wan could admit that it was probably more effective than the average sentient’s best go of it. Nevertheless, he stared back steadily, until Boba broke the standoff with a yell for his buir to hurry it up already.

The jump to hyperspace was possibly one of the most uncomfortable Obi-Wan had ever experienced. His chest and arm were throbbing, his wrists were quickly growing sore and numb from being wrenched up behind him and chained at such an awkward angle, and his shredded undershirt was quite frankly too flimsy to keep him warm during deep space travel.

All he’d managed was a difficult, painful sort of backwards somersault through his own arms to prevent his shoulders from straining too badly, but now he was pretty sure one of his cuts had started bleeding again; perhaps both.

After about an hour, he heard Boba’s raised voice from the cockpit; something about _hurt_ and _you promised._ A few minutes later, he Fett quietly descended the ladder. His helmet was off; apparently Obi-Wan no longer warranted that sort of caution.

There was a pause, while Fett’s eyes flicked to his arms, now comfortably above his head instead of painfully suspended behind him, and asked, “The kriff did you manage that?” His voice was clearer, without the static of a vocoder; husky, deep, almost pleasant, were it not for the unfortunate circumstances.

“I’m flexible,” Obi-Wan offered mildly.

“I can see that,” Fett said. He bent to grab bacta spray, gel, and bandages from the first aid kit, still on the floor.

“You aren’t planning on killing me yet?” Obi-Wan asked, surprised.

“No. I owe you a debt and I’ll honor it,” Fett said, as if it physically pained him to admit. “Besides. Boba needs a teacher.”

“So you _abducted_ me?” Obi-Wan asked incredulously. “And used your child to do it?”

“Boba needs to learn eventually,” Fett said, though Obi-Wan was unsure if he meant using the Force or kidnapping people. “This was convenient.”

“Plenty of Force-sensitive children never learn how to use it. He wouldn’t suffer for it.”

“That’s what you think,” Fett snarled. He was suddenly very close, and there was something cold and sharp in his hand. Obi-Wan tensed, but all he did was cut through the front of his undershit. Then he was tugging the tangle of material down until the wound on Obi-Wan’s arm was easily accessible.

Obi-Wan studied him for a moment. He was a handsome man, even the scars on his face couldn’t ruin that, though his scowl might. He was cutting the makeshift dressing from his arm, so Obi-Wan offered, “Boba is very talented at first aid for his age. He was quite helpful.”

Fett said nothing in response, just ripped the bandage off. Obi-Wan bit back a hiss; the dried blood had glued the fabric to his cut, and removing it had ripped it back open. He shivered as warmth started to drip down his arm.

“It’s small, but deep,” Fett observed, spraying it and beginning to wind proper bandages around it, to protect it while the bacta did its work. “Surprised you could carry Boba around. Force osik?”

“I was hardly going to make a child walk that far through the Undercity,” Obi-Wan scoffed. “The Force makes it easier to push through pain, but Boba would still need painkillers if he was hurt this badly. It can help him push his limits, but he can’t break them.”

Fett was silent for a while. Obi-Wan contemplated breaking his nose with a headbutt, but it wouldn’t improve his chances for escape, especially considering that they were in hyperspace. Besides, it would upset Boba to see his father hurt.

“Lemme see your chest.” Obi-Wan was hunched over in an attempt to conserve heat, but Fett made an annoyed noise and slapped his back until his spine was sufficiently arched. 

His hand was warm. Obi-Wan couldn’t help but shiver, and frowned when Fett snatched it away as if burned.

The wound on his chest was longer and more jagged than the one on his arm, though thankfully much shallower. Fett used bacta gel to seal the edges of the cut together, fingers deft, then wiped them clean on the remains of Obi-Wan’s undershirt, now tangled around his wrists along with his overshirt and the cuffs. Then he started wrapping Obi-Wan’s chest, reaching around him in a parody of an embrace to get the roll of bandages around his back. Obi-Wan, cold and woozy from blood loss, leaned into him slightly, relishing the warmth he exuded. 

All too soon he was done, shoving Obi-Wan away none too gently. He hissed at the cold metal of the ship wall connecting with the bare skin of his back. “I don’t suppose you would help me back into my shirt? I could use the heat.”

“Do it yourself, jetii,” Fett snapped, practically jumping to his feet.

“I thought you owed me a debt?” Obi-Wan said acerbically. “So much for Mandalorian honor.”

Fett’s hands flexed, and for a moment Obi-Wan expected him to strike him. 

“Trust me, jetii,” he said at last, tone icy, “I’m doing you a bigger favor than you’ll ever know.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't drug Obi-Wan this time!!! be proud of me


End file.
